


Coming Home

by DweorgWine



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bilbo POV, Everyone Is Alive, M/M, Post Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DweorgWine/pseuds/DweorgWine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s after the Battle of Five Armies and the dwarves have reclaimed Erebor, but things aren’t turning out quite as Bilbo hoped. The fabled fortress is dank and stinks of dragon. And despite finally having a soft feather bed, Bilbo can’t seem to fall asleep without the company of a certain dwarf…</p>
<p>Based on <a href="http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/44258999664">this picture</a> and accompanying text by tumblr user <a href="http://kaciart.tumblr.com">kaciart</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

Bilbo opened his eyes. The air felt musty, dank; the ground too soft and even. After a moment he realized he had been asleep. A second moment and he recognized his bed. His head was tucked against his pillow, as if against another man’s chest, and his arm stretched out, out, towards—nothing. There was no one there; nothing but the wide, empty bed.

Bilbo pulled his arm back against himself, rubbing it warm. How could he be colder here, in the fabled halls of Erebor, than in all their months of trekking through the wilderness? 

He rolled onto his back, placed his head deliberately in the center of the pillow, and folded his hands across his chest. He closed his eyes. Waited.

After some time—impossible to tell how long without the moon—Bilbo sighed and sat up. Sleep clearly had no intention of returning, and in its place his mind was filled with. . .

“Thoughts better not thought, Bilbo Baggins,” he muttered to himself, pushing back the covers and crawling laboriously out of the bed. “What you need is a little midnight snack. Clear your head.”

Once said, that seemed the most practical idea of any, so he belted on his robe against the chill and made his way down to the kitchen.

———

The main kitchens of Erebor were vast affairs, built to supply a banquet larger than the Shire, but they, like most of Erebor, were still suffering from Smaug’s prolonged stay. The dwarves had chosen a single long hall near the entrance, where the air was freshest, to be their home until the rest of the mountain could be restored. Bilbo had helped Bofur outfit one of the rooms as a makeshift kitchen, and it was there that he went now.

“Cheese, mushrooms, eggs . . . no eggs,” he amended, remembering his encounter under a very different set of mountains. “No eggs for a while, I think.”

He pulled out a loaf of bread instead and set his finds on the wooden slab the dwarves called a table. It was spotted with bits of food already beginning to molder in the damp air. The cheese was blue in patches, but the bread had—perversely—dried, stale and hard. “At least the damp can’t hurt mushrooms,” he muttered, looking for a knife, but when he turned back he found that the round mushrooms had rolled, one by one, off the uneven board and into the dust on the floor.

“Right.” Bilbo clenched his fists and took a deep breath. “Right.” He crouched under the table and pulled up the hem of his borrowed robe to make a sling. Wiping the dust off a mushroom, he dropped it in. “It isn’t—” another mushroom— “as if—” another— “this weren’t what you expected. They are— _dwarves_.” The word came out with a bit more vehemence than he had intended, and Bilbo paused. “Their grand and glorious mountain is still a _cave_ ,” he went in the same tone. It felt false and somehow wrong. Shaking his head to clear that thought, Bilbo forced himself to continue. “This is no place for a hobbit.” He reached for another mushroom. “We got—to—the mountain. We won—the battle. And now—you are going—home.” His fingers closed on the last mushroom and he paused. Home. 

“Home is where I belong,” he said firmly, backing out from under the table. “And home is where I will go.”

“Are you so eager to leave us, Master Baggins?”

The unexpected voice made Bilbo jump. Already half standing as he backed out, he tripped on the back of his robe and sprawled on the floor. Mushrooms spilled from his lap, bouncing across the dusty floor into even dustier corners. 

He swallowed a curse as he recognized Thorin’s boots. “I’m fine,” Bilbo called without solicitation. He rolled to his feet and began to stand. “Just fine—”

His head hit the table—hard. The loud crack filled the room. 

Bilbo went down hard. His eyes blurred with water and pain, and for a moment he could only sit there, breathing slowly and holding back tears. A noise echoed beside him, and Bilbo saw a vague shadow through his blurred vision. Too in pain to think, he leaned his pulsing head gratefully against cool cloth.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders and pushed him gently away. Bilbo focused his eyes just long enough to see Thorin’s worried face, peering into his, before dropping his gaze to the one mushroom somehow still caught in the folds of his robe.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, biting his teeth against the pain.

“Is your head—?”

“It is fine.”

“What is wrong?” 

“Nothing is wrong.” 

“Bilbo.”

Bilbo lifted his head to face Thorin, but his eyes pointed emptily past. After a moment, Thorin sighed and dropped his hands.

“If you desire your home so badly, I can arrange to have you accompanied there.” He stood and began to turn away. “It will take some time to find an escort and divide your share of the treasure, but by week’s end, you should be ready to depart.”

“Week’s end?” Bilbo gasped, scrambling to his feet, pain forgotten. “Seven days?”

“That is a week’s term, I believe,” Thorin replied dryly. “I am sorry it must be so long.”

He was almost out the door before Bilbo stopped him. “Wait,” he called, holding out a useless hand. Thorin’s broad shoulders tensed, but he didn’t look around. “Er, would you like some food? I was going to make . . . something. . .”

Thorin did turn then, the corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly behind his beard, and with that Bilbo felt the great fist that had been clenching his chest start to loosen. He smiled despite himself. “There isn’t much,” he apologized, gesturing to the moldy offerings.

“We will make do.”

———

They did. Thorin produced a long, straight blade and scraped the wooden table clean. They shored up its legs so it stood flat, and then Bilbo salvaged the best of the cheese and bread while Thorin started a fire under the chimney. Finally their meal was ready, and the two sat together in front of the fire, waiting for embers.

“It must be nice for you,” Bilbo said awkwardly. “Being home.”

Thorin grunted.

“I haven’t seen you much lately,” Bilbo tried again, holding bread and cheese over the embers on an improvised toasting fork. “You must be busy getting everything together. Reacquainting yourself.” Thorin only _humph_ ed again, and Bilbo looked over at him. By the light of the fire, he could see that his face was pale and haggard beneath his beard. 

“Are you well?”

“I have had trouble sleeping,” Thorin said shortly. 

When it was clear that no more information would be volunteered, Bilbo turned his concentration to the food, waiting for the moment when the cheese had melted but the bread hadn’t yet scorched. Perfection achieved, he removed the toasting fork, topped each slice with a few chopped mushrooms, and handed one to Thorin.

Thorin gazed at the food in his hand, then looked around the room with a sigh. “You must think we dwarves are like wildmen.”

“Well,” Bilbo forced a chuckle, “I did live with you on the road. This is just a . . . continuation of that.”

Thorin didn’t laugh. “This is not as we were meant to live. We have our halls back at last, but this is—this is not Erebor.”

Bilbo risked a glance at the erstwhile king. He was staring blankly into the fire, mouth downturned. His meal sat forgotten in his hand, a bit of melted cheese dripping off the bread.

Bilbo reached forward and scooped the cheese back onto the bread before he could stop himself. He felt Thorin’s gaze shift from the fire to him, and looked up at the dwarf. “I know this is not what you expected, but it won’t be so bad.” He straightened. “This is not quite the same thing, but my father built Bag End for my mother. We lived for many years in an unfinished house. My father felt guilty that he had not been able to finish it as soon as he wished, but my mother just told him, _A house does not have to be perfect to be a home_.”

Thorin barked a laugh. “That is not what you think.”

Bilbo looked at him.

“I remember your Bag End,” Thorin elaborated. “And I heard your mutterings in here. Pithy sayings or no, you would like a perfect house.”

“Well.” Bilbo frowned in thought. “Well. A kitchen that is not so moldy would be nice. A table that is a bit more flat. A few more windows. But no, I think . . . I think this could make quite a lovely home, for you.”

He turned to find Thorin smiling softly at him, an odd expression in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Bilbo smiled back.

———

They finished their meal and tidied up the kitchen, working in companionable silence. Finally they had cleaned as much as was possible in the small space and, with no further cause for delay, made their slow way back down the hall. They stopped outside their doors.

“Very well,” Thorin said after a pause. “Good night, Master Baggins.”

“Good night,” Bilbo echoed, turning to his door. He hesitated over the latch. “Er, Thorin—”

“Yes?” The response was a little too quick. Bilbo glanced over his shoulder to find Thorin facing him, his own door forgotten.

“I, uh,” Bilbo tapped the latch and ducked his head. “It’s been a change, not sleeping outdoors, hasn’t it?”

Thorin’s voice was flat. “You must be pleased to find yourself in a feather bed once more.”

“Well, actually,” Bilbo forced a chuckle, “I’ve had trouble sleeping lately. I guess I must have gotten used to . . . those conditions.”

He looked up in time to catch Thorin mid-gulp. Another second and the dwarf’s features were composed, regal. “Perhaps the bedding does not meet your standards. It has, after all, been in the custody of a dragon these many years. However, I have found little to trouble me with my bedding. If sleep eludes you, you may find it there.”

Bilbo clapped his jaw shut and peered at Thorin, but before he had a chance to question Thorin’s meaning, he had swung the door open and gestured Bilbo inside. With less protest or discussion than Bilbo would have thought possible, he found his feet carrying him past Thorin’s outstretched arm and through the door. Thorin closed it behind them and stepped around Bilbo, momentarily close despite the spacious room.

“You may have the bed,” Thorin said, his face quirked into that wry half-smile. “Our burglar deserves a comfortable night’s sleep.”

“As does our king.”

The words were out before Bilbo could think to stop them. He swallowed and held Thorin’s gaze, feeling small and awkward and impetuous next to the much larger dwarf. After a moment, Thorin nodded.

They negotiated the sleeping arrangements in silence, both turning their backs to strip down to their nightshirts. As Bilbo climbed in next to Thorin, he marveled again at how large a proper bed was after months of sleeping outside. The space between them was so wide that Bilbo might have stayed in his own room. Holding back a sigh, he pulled up the covers and began to lay down.

“Your head.” Bilbo looked up to find Thorin on his side, propped on one elbow. “May I see it?”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Bilbo protested, but nevertheless began to scoot towards Thorin. “I think it was more the surprise.”

Thorin’s large fingers were surprisingly gentle as they probed his scalp with Oin-like efficiency. “I don’t see any damage.” His eyes dropped to Bilbo’s. “Are you truly all right?”

“I’m fine,” Bilbo said again, but he didn’t pull away. Thorin’s hand was still cupping his head, fingers filtering neatly through the curled locks of Bilbo’s hair. Neither moved. They lay there, frozen, as if some unwritten contract entitled each to free perusal of the other’s face as long as the moment remained unbroken. Bilbo looked at Thorin, taking in his wide gray eyes, his parted lips, his dark hair as it fell across the arm that bridged the gap between them. He could see the pulse beating quicker in his neck. And the idea that this great dwarf king might be frightened of a hobbit—of him—broke the spell. Bilbo laughed.

Thorin snatched his hand back, expression closing off. “I am glad you are unharmed,” he began.

Bilbo put his hand to Thorin’s cheek to stop him. He let himself run his thumb across the rough beard, watching Thorin’s eyes. Slowly, very slowly, Bilbo leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Thorin’s lips.

After a second’s shocked inaction, Bilbo felt Thorin’s lips move gently against his. He prolonged the kiss for another moment, two. Three. 

He slowly broke away and leaned back to look at Thorin. The dwarf’s eyes were as unguarded as he had ever seen them, and in them Bilbo read fear, hope, confusion—and below that, happiness. Bilbo smiled and leaned in for a second kiss, quick but firm. This time when he pulled away, Thorin smiled.

Bilbo could feel himself grinning broadly, but he didn’t care. As Thorin pulled him farther into bed and arranged the covers over both of them, Bilbo tucked his head under Thorin’s chin and closed his eyes. He felt Thorin’s arms come around his waist and sighed.

As they drifted off to sleep, Thorin’s rough rumble of a voice was almost too low to hear. “I will miss you when you go home.”

Bilbo smiled against Thorin’s chest. “I think I am home.”


End file.
